


Wake Me Up Next Time

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Reese Lives, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Post-Finale, Prompt Fic, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: It's Harold who has trouble retiring, not John. But they'll both get there eventually.





	Wake Me Up Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> I requested Finch/Reese prompts on Tumblr, and bigbunnimal asked for fluffy retirement fic.

John settles into what Shaw calls "disgusting domestic bliss" with surprising ease. He saved Harold and the world and somehow made it out alive. His debts were paid. When Harold said they could rest, John agreed, and hung up his suit for good. Of course, it's not as simple as that—few things are—but John favors simplicity these days.

In the end, it's Harold who has trouble retiring, not John.

Six weeks and four days. It's the longest stretch of time Harold's stayed retired so far. Last time, he didn't quite make it to five weeks before jumping back into the fray. And John gets it—he does, really. Guilt and Grief are some of his oldest and dearest enemies, too, and then there's Harold's added sense of responsibility. He can't chase them away from Harold. Give him a human bad guy or an evil AI, and he'll take out the gun he can't bring himself to stop carrying and deal with them. But he can't chase a demon out of someone else's head. He can't even chase most of them out of his own brain.

He's starting to think Harold ran off a few of his own, though, somehow. That retirement might stick this time.

Harold's smiling more these days: the kind of smiles that were rare and precious before Samaritan and almost never seen after. Big, real smiles that crinkle the corners of his eyes and spread wide across his face. Private, unconscious little ones as he sips his tea, watches birds at his feeders, eats John's increasingly creative breakfasts, exists.

Harold laughs more, too, and not only wry, restrained little chuckles, either. When did he ever hear Harold giggle before? Has he ever gotten yesterday's gift of an honest-to-god belly laugh? John doubts it. Harold _did_ say, "Oh, goodness, I haven't laughed that hard in years," as he clutched his stomach and wiped away tears of mirth, after all.

The world around them is healing from Samaritan. Maybe Harold finally is, too.

John hopes so. It would be nice to always wake up like this, to a fresh cup of coffee handed to him by a still sleep-rumpled Harold, instead of to an apology or, worse, to a damn _note_.

That was the one time John got angry over the whole thing. He'll be damned if the last words he gets from Harold are an impersonal little note on a blue Post-It that fell off the fridge as soon as he touched it. Not after everything they've been through. John headed for the subway lair for the first time in two years just to confront him.

"Wake me up next time," he'd growled, slapping the note down on the desk. Then he'd kissed Harold with excruciating tenderness and care, ignoring Shaw's lewd comments in the background. "Don't just...don't. Okay? Don't just leave me a note."

But getting Harold to stop leaving altogether would be even better.

It would be nice to get to tease Harold every morning about his hair. Tell him every day that the spiky mess makes him look like a bird with its feathers ruffled. Crack bad Einstein jokes about it. Muss it up further. And then every day, get that part-irritated, part-tolerant, all-fond little huff that never gets old.

It would be nice to always start his day by watching Harold's face as he codes. Or, even better, as Harold does crosswords or the most brain-breaking puzzles he can get his hands on, without ever peeking at the answers.

It would be nice to not have to worry so much anymore.

He'll always worry about Harold. That's not going to stop, even if the numbers do. But it would be nice if it was always the low-key, generic brand of worry. Better that than the cold, breathtaking, raw terror that sets in the second Harold steps out the door to work another number.

Right now, Harold is smiling to himself, tapping the end of his pen on his cheek as he works a Sudoku puzzle that boasts that it's "EXTREME!" in huge, block letters. Not extreme for Harold. His hair sticks out at wild angles, like he shoved a finger in a light socket. He'll have it trimmed soon, which is kind of a shame; John likes it crazy. His dark green pajamas—and John will never end his campaign to get Harold to skip them altogether and spend the rest of his life naked—are hopelessly wrinkled. He looks peaceful.

He looks—John feels like he should knock on wood as he thinks it— _happy._

John wonders what changed, but doesn't ask, doesn't want to risk ruining Harold's peace. Instead, he pauses in the middle of his culinary whirlwind to go and hold Harold close, breathe in the early morning skin-and-sweat scent of him, whisper something sappy and ridiculous in his ear. Harold laughs softly, and lets out a contented sigh. John suddenly hates the back of the dining room chair for standing in between them. He wants to be closer. Maybe Shaw can use the chair for sparring practice or something. Target practice. Firewood. A toilet for Bear. Sitting. Something. Harold can sit in his lap from now on.

Then, Harold brings one hand to his lips for a tiny kiss, and the other, and John's stomach does a swooping backflip, his heart a delighted flutter. Harold entwines their fingers together. John beams.

Breakfast can go to hell. John would rather have this.

"You seem to be in an exceptionally good mood this morning," Harold says, sounding pleased. "You've been humming."

John raises his eyebrows. Has he? Huh. He hadn't noticed. "It's a good morning," he says. "So far. I—"

Harold's phone interrupts. The display says it's Fusco. Harold tenses. John swears under his breath. At this hour, it's not a social call. He should've kept his mouth shut.

"Don't answer it," he says, against the shell of Harold's ear, though he knows Harold will. "Please. Don't."

"You know I have to," Harold says. "It might not be about a number." And, dammit, he could be right.

But it is about a number, of course. John tightens his embrace and holds his breath, waiting for Harold to say he'll be right there and pull away. He buries his nose in Harold's soft hair, kisses the top of his head, waits. Six weeks and four days isn't enough, but...

"No, I'm actually done this time," Harold says. He and Fusco exchange a few words, enough to piece together that they're dealing with a hacker. Harold insists that Shaw and Fusco are more than capable of handling the situation themselves, with The Machine's help. "Yes, I'm quite serious—I won't be joining you, Detective, unless there's an actual emergency. This does not qualify as an emergency."

After listening for a moment, Harold adds, "If you're that desperate, I'm sure Mr. Pierce or Mr. Tao would be more than willing—oh, thank god, he hung up on me."

"Rude." John chuckles, torn between annoyance, amusement, and relief.

"Yes, but quite welcome." Harold turns off his phone and pushes it aside, and takes John's hands again. "After breakfast, I'm thinking about grabbing my new book and returning to bed. Would you care to join me?"

"That depends," John says, somehow keeping his voice even despite the giddiness bubbling up inside him. "You gonna read to me?"

"If you want," Harold replies. In a deceptively innocent tone, he adds, "Or we can always do...other bedroom activities, if you'd prefer."

John buries his grin in Harold's hair, and tugs a hand free to flick open buttons on Harold's shirt. "We're retired now, Finch. We have time to do both."

"Continue that sort of behavior, and breakfast will have to wait," Harold chides, with obvious amusement. Then he punctuates it with, "Mr. Reese," in the low tone that always makes John's knees go weak.

John swallows hard, and says, "I'm good with that."


End file.
